


gold and silver line my heart

by Directionless_Foray



Series: bad baby [2]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Flashbacks, Kidnapping, M/M, Organized Crime, Origin Story, and vaguely criminal husband Seb, more rich housewife charles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23610247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Directionless_Foray/pseuds/Directionless_Foray
Summary: "How do you do it," Charles asks quietly, "when it all gets a bit too scary and real?"Seb thinks about it for a few moments."Well," he starts, "I find what usually works is to," a soft chuckle, "to hit the ground when you hear gunshots and pray for everyone you love.""You don't believe in God," Charles teases gently, pushing back a little against Seb's comforting bulk."I have to now."(Charles gets kidnapped and spends a lot of it thinking about how he ended up there.)
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Sebastian Vettel
Series: bad baby [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699429
Comments: 12
Kudos: 89





	gold and silver line my heart

**Author's Note:**

> title from 'Without You' by Lana Del Rey
> 
> I was meant to be working on my crim assignment. *laughs in poor study habits*
> 
> This was meant to just be a snarky follow up but turned into an honest to god look at marriage and love and family. 
> 
> Whoops?

_(Now)_

Charles is kidnapped on his way home from the nail salon.

Well-

He presumes it's a kidnapping.

He's shoved into an ugly, banged up Honda Civic and sure-

He and Seb are into some weird shit-

But this doesn't feel like their textbook roleplaying.

Plus-

Seb would never incorporate a used _Honda Civic _in a roleplay.

_Come on. _

So Charles presumes that yes.

He is indeed being kidnapped.

-

_(Then)_

Charles is eying the display in front of the Chanel boutique.

He likes the pearl earrings most. The ones dangling from the diamond camellias.

He preferred the ones from last season but these ones are also acceptable. They look to be modeled off an archival design.

Charles likes a vintage inspiration. A legacy design.

The security guard in front of the store keeps glaring at Charles and really,

As if that's going to stop Charles from window shopping.

Even though they both know Charles cannot afford_ anything_ in the Chanel store.

Though Charles has_ aspirations_ at least. 

The middle-aged man with an earpiece and an off-the-rack suit and the beginnings of salt and pepper in his hair?

He doesn't have that luxury.

(_Aspiration_.)

Charles has him there. 

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to-"

Charles bites his lip and braces himself to be told to leave.

"Darling, I'm sorry I made you wait."

Charles startles and looks up when an arm is slung casually around his waist.

"Did you see anything you like?"

Charles looks up into unfamiliar twinkling blue eyes.

"Um," he remembers the security guard tapping his feet to their left and does the cost-benefit analysis, "not quite," he smiles wryly.

"Then let's move on to greener pastures, angel," he offers Charles an arm.

Charles likes that.

The respect.

That recognition of Charles as something precious.

He slips his arm through the stranger's arm and lets himself be lead to another storefront.

_Cartier._

He really likes the love bangles.

For some reason, Charles points out the rose-gold one inlaid with diamonds to the man. Tells him that those are Charles' favourite.

The man just smiles and nods, playing along.

Later that same day, over fries and cups of diet coke at McDonald's, Seb promises Charles that he'll buy him the _whole goddamn Chanel store one day._

Charles had laughed, legs crossed under the plastic table.

Seb was watching him intently, those big blue eyes drinking Charles in like a fine wine rather than cheap soft-drink.

And no one had ever looked at Charles like that.

Charles hadn't quite believed Seb but he had acquiesced to a second date. Completely intrigued.

-

_(Now)_

"Shut up and tell us where your fucking husband is."

The man is wearing a balaclava.

How charming.

How _traditional_.

(Seb wears sublimely tailored Hugo Boss to work.)

"My husband is on a business trip."

He's not.

But Charles has a few tubs of hazelnut gelato in the backseat of the Maybach and he needs to pick Collette up from her French lessons.

He doesn't have time for this.

"Don't fucking lie to us bitch."

And it's all Seb's fault, really.

That Charles has grown accustomed to being spoken to in a certain manner.

One that does not include being referred to as _bitch_.

"Excuse me?" he tries not to tap his Jimmy Choos irritably.

"Where is he, bitch."

Charles' patience is pretty shot.

Whoever manhandled him into the car wasn't very careful and Charles thinks he's torn his Valentino pencil skirt.

It's _vintage. _He can't just _buy another one_.

This poor Peaky-Blinders impersonation is not doing much to ease Charles' irritation either.

"This isn't very organised is it?" Charles says sharply and narrows his eyes, arms bound uncomfortably tight with zipties.

The man behind the wheel snarls as he takes a particularly sharp turn, "he owes us money-"

"Yes, I gathered," Charles murmurs wryly.

The inside of the car is not much better than the outside.

Charles doesn't know the specifics of Seb's work protocols.

_(Plausible deniability.)_

But he's fairly confident that they do things with a bit more panache.

Style.

_Italians_, you know?

"This is not a very well thought out plan," Charles remarks, "I have children to pick up soon and people will notice."

Seb is at home doing some gardening.

There's a roast chicken in the oven.

Plus,

Collette's French teacher knows to call the home number if Charles is late by even five minutes.

And then to call another private number if there's no response on the home phone.

Charles gives it two hours before he's home, settled in a nice rose-scented bath.

And really, 

After this hassle.

He better have a certain someone accompanying and tending to him in the pale pink water. 

(The things we do for love.)

(The things we _endure.)_

-

_(Then)_

Seb's fingers are gentle as they lift Charles' veil.

For some reason, that's what does it.

The care that he takes with the translucent tulle.

(The care he's always taken with Charles.)

That's what makes Charles burst into tears.

Seb ignores the celebrant and cups a warm hand to the side of Charles' face.

"Charles, my love, my angel, I promise to find you, to choose you, to protect you, and to cherish you until I die."

Charles tries valiantly to blink away his tears.

His mascara isn’t waterproof.

"I promise you everything you will ever want and need and a few other things you haven't thought of yet," he smiles softly.

And he's in a suit that's too big.

But Charles doesn't care.

Doesn't care that his mother isn't here.

Charles is exactly where he's meant to be with exactly who he's meant to be with.

There is a man who is promising him everything he will ever want for the rest of his life. 

And Charles happens to love him too.

Yes,

He is exactly where he is meant to be. 

-

_(Now)_

"Sit down."

Charles examines the rickety plastic chair disdainfully.

It looks like the kind of chair that _folds out_.

Like the kind they use at outdoor community concerts.

At school fetes.

(Shit ones.)

"I'll stand, thank you."

"It wasn't a question, bitch."

Charles sighs.

The last time someone referred to Charles as an _uppity little whore _within earshot of Seb they-

Well, Charles hasn't heard from them in a while.

That's beside the point.

(Or maybe it's the entire point.)

"What do you think you're going to achieve?" Charles asks warily as he settles gingerly on the edge of the chair.

His wrists are starting to hurt from being bound for so long.

(And not in the _fun way_.) 

One of the men is rifling through his bag and a _Hermes _Birkin was never made to be treated so roughly.

Charles doesn't even think the man has washed his hands.

"Your husband is going to pay us the money he owes."

Charles looks down at his pristine patent leather pumps and his nice wool skirt and the Cartier bracelets jangling on his wrists.

The crocodile _Hermes _Birkin the second man is tipping upside down.

"He owes," a look at the two balaclava-clad men of average build and height, who kidnapped Charles in an old _Honda Civic_, "_you _money?"

One of the men is pulling out a little silver flip phone.

An honest to god _flip phone._

Charles wonders if he was kidnapped by extras from the Matrix.

The phone is thrust to Charles' face.

He bites back the urge to ask if it has been disinfected.

The only things that touch Charles' face are _La Mer, Guerlain_, and occasionally-

When Seb has been very good

(_Very, very good_.)

Occasionally Charles will allow certain other-

"Charles- Charles, baby-" Seb's voice comes through the crackly speaker.

Charles blinks, "Seb, my love?"

"Where are you? What do they want?"

The phone is ripped from the side of Charles' cheek.

"Okay, you got confirmation that he's alive," balaclava #1 snarls.

Charles can hear the sound of Seb swearing.

Can hear the thinly veiled panic in his voice.

God,

Charles hopes someone gets fucking _shot_ over this.

As a general rule, Charles tries not to wish ill will on too many people.

He doesn't think he,

_(His family) _

Has much of a moral leg to stand on.

Just in general. 

So he really has to ration negative karmic energy-

God,

_The kids._

"Your fucking husband wants to know that you're not injured," balaclava #1 snorts.

Charles purses his lips.

Balaclava #1 hands the phone to balaclava #2 and he presses it roughly to the side of Charles' face again.

"Charles darling, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Seb."

Charles mournfully eyes the tube of _La Prairie _hand cream that has rolled onto the ground after balaclava #2 upended his Birkin. 

"Tell me- tell me, angel-"

The phone is ripped away.

Charles narrows his eyes.

He doesn't know how he's going to survive this.

What with the way he's vaulting violently from anger to fear, from the brink of tears to growling fury in a matter of seconds.

And sure,

He's not as powerful as Seb.

Not in concrete terms.

(In large unmarked crates arriving in international ports and foreign maps with territory lines crisscrossing over it in red ink.)

But Charles is a crafty bitch.

A little _nobody_ who crawled his way to paradise and a castle with his king and his angels and their treasure chest of shiny pretty things.

He's a _snake._

And everyone knows a cornered snake is dangerous. 

Charles has pearl earrings glinting in his earlobes and poison on his tongue.

Charles coughs delicately, balaclava #2 huffs.

"May I say good-bye to my beloved husband?" Charles asks sweetly.

The two kidnappers exchange a look.

The phone is pressed back to Charles' face and he tries not to grimace.

He'll need to exfoliate once he gets home.

"Seb," Charles murmurs.

"Charles-"

"_Fare un casino, Tesoro,_" he says lowly. 

"What the fuck did you-"

The phone disappears and Charles recoils when a gun is pointed at his forehead.

Oh.

So it's the real deal now?

-

_(Then)_

Charles can't call his mother. Can't ask her to look after the kids because he thinks the Italian police have finally caught up to Seb.

Knows that the moment he utters the words.

(No matter how nicely he tries to soften it.)

She'll screech the loudest, _I told you so_, to have ever been unleashed by a bitter mother-in-law.

And Charles can't deal with that at the best of times.

He certainly can't when his husband is halfway across the world and locked in an undisclosed police station.

(An _Italian _police station.)

Charles can't deal with that.

(Not when he may never see him again.)

(His husb-)

And sure,

They've had this conversation.

The Conversation.

About what to do.

Who to call.

The protocol.

But it's one thing to discuss it at night in between the sheets.

Sweat cooling on your skin, the man you love running his fingers through your damp hair, moonlight filtering in through curtains.

And another thing entirely, to have to actually do it.

No one has heard from his husband, _the man_ _he loves_, in over four days.

Charles closes his eyes for a few seconds.

(He can only afford a few seconds.)

Opens his eyes and grips his phone.

(His second phone.)

(The one for emergencies.)

(The one Seb _kissed him on the forehead and told him to only use when things were 'really bad'.)_

(He thinks this qualifies as _really bad_.)

(No one has heard from him in _four days_.)

And dials a number he knows off by heart but has never had to use up until now.

(The one Seb made him recite until he knew it off by heart.)

The call connects immediately.

(The last text Charles received from Seb is a picture of a big full silver moon and a simple message.)

(_My moon, my heaven and earth, I am in hell without you. I can't wait until I am home x S)_

"Kimi," Charles tries to keep his emotions in check, grips his phone so hard that his knuckles are white, "what do you need me to do?"

The man gives him the same instructions Seb outlined all those years ago.

Charles nods as he mentally tries to recall which safe Seb put the spare passports and papers in.

_In sickness and in health._

"I can be at the airport in an hour," he confirms, "the kids will stay with my mother."

_In good times and in bad._

(And these truly are the _really bad._)

Charles hangs up and dials another number he knows by heart.

”Mother, I need a favour.”

(The things we do for love.)

(The things we _endure._)

-

_(Now)_

"Suck my dick, bitch."

Charles resists the urge to roll his eyes.

"I only get on my knees for Jesus and my husband," Charles snaps, "and I only spread my legs for _the latter_."

The gun makes another unwelcome appearance and Charles bites the inside of his cheek as his left-hand trembles.

For all his big talk.

Charles has a lot to live for.

A lot to fear about death.

He's not ready to leave his family.

His husband.

His _children_.

(His _Birkins._)

"What do you think my husband is doing?" Charles is tired.

His gelato has probably melted in the back seat of his car. All over the nice leather upholstery.

He hopes Seb had someone pick up Collette from her French lessons.

He just wants to go _home_.

It's starting to feel less and less likely the more time passes.

"Do you think Seb is filling some bags with cash right now? Putting them in an unmarked car and driving up here alone? Unarmed?"

Charles' husband is not stupid.

He is brilliant and accomplished and _feared_.

He is not stupid.

(They have _kids._)

He's not coming here alone.

(He's not coming here.)

Charles laughs softly, "my husband is not stupid."

There's a safe with fake passports and other official papers upstairs and Seb once solemnly told him to leave him for dead if Charles ever had to.

To protect the family no matter what.

That they have had their love story.

Now they have _a legacy. _

(They have _kids._)

Legacy trumps love story.

Charles knows this. 

Seb isn't going to come for him.

-

_(Then_)

Charles is quietly fuming. Someone has been talking to Henry at school.

Spreading rumours about his father-

What his father does to provide him with his beautiful house and pay for his $200k a year education.

(Someone jealous that Henry's fathers are rich and in-love and haven't had a single diet-pill or pool-boy-related scandal.)

(Have a fleet of shiny Ferraris parked in their driveway and not a single extramarital affair.)

(That Charles doesn't need a nose-job to command the attention of a room and Seb doesn't need an ill-advised friendship with a dodgy politician to be the most powerful man in their area code.)

(In the country perhaps.)

Charles has finally calmed Henry down enough to go to sleep. Left him with a kiss on his forehead and a glass of warm milk and honey.

He'll be having a word with the principal tomorrow.

Charles may be a viper and his children are vipers in the making too, but that is tomorrow's business.

Today they are _children._

Children who don't fully grasp that their father doesn't operate brain-surgery, own tech companies, or manage hotels to make his money.

He does something very different.

Charles fills a glass of water in the kitchen, hands shaking.

He spills half of the water in the sink what with how much his hands are shaking.

Strong arms wrap around his waist from behind him.

"It's okay my love."

Charles is inclined to disagree with his husband on this occasion. 

"How do you do it?" Charles asks instead.

Seb hums, Charles' eyes flutter shut. 

"Sometimes I think it's harder for you than it will ever be for me," Seb muses, hooking Charles' head under his chin.

"Really?" Charles asks even as he privately agrees.

"One day I may disappear for two hours on a street in Naples and you may never hear from me again," Seb murmurs, _"that's_ what frightens me, that you will suffer for my sins."

Charles smiles a little ruefully, "there is plenty of blame to go around in this house."

”This is a mansion not a church after all,” Charles adds drily.

This beautiful mansion with as many bedrooms and marble-floored bathrooms as security personnel stationed around the gates. 

(And two swimming pools.)

(One indoor and one outdoor.)

"Perhaps," Seb presses a kiss on his head, "original sin."

"How do you do it," Charles asks quietly, tangling his fingers with Seb's, "when it all gets a bit too scary and real?"

Seb thinks about it for a few moments.

"Well," he starts, "I find what usually works is to," a soft chuckle, "to hit the ground when you hear gunshots and pray for everyone you love."

"You don't believe in God," Charles teases gently, pushing back a little against Seb's comforting bulk.

"I have to now." 

-

_(Now)_

Charles hears the sounds of gunshots and he hits the ground.

Muscle memory.

_Hit the ground when you hear gunshots and pray for everyone you love._

Charles hits the ground after the first shot.

He's murmuring prayers under his breath before he even realises it.

He tells himself,

_Don't close your eyes you idiot._

_Not when bullets are flying._

_Don't close your eyes._

He closes his eyes anyway.

Someone is screaming and doors are being kicked in.

Charles cries silently and closes his eyes and thinks about his _family_.

-

_(Then_)

The sun is glittering on the horizon.

A blinding ball of pure light.

Charles watches it disappear, descending into the cerulean waters of Positano's foreshore.

He wishes he could stay here forever.

(Not here _Italy. Obviously)_

(But like here-)

_(Here.)_

With Henry showing Collette how to build sandcastles with the little red plastic bucket and spade.

Little Leon cradled to Charles' chest and snoring softly.

Seb napping under a beach umbrella, pale blue linen shirt unbuttoned rather enticingly.

Security detail dispersed around the beach and watching over the family on the empty beach.

Charles wishes he could take a snapshot and preserve this moment, like a pressed flower, keeping it between the pages of an old book.

Him standing with his feet in the damp sand.

Foamy water lapping at his feet.

White cotton sundress billowing in the gentle salty breeze.

Little bright red swimming bottoms, the ones that tie on the sides, peeking out slightly when the wind rustles his skirt.

Surrounded by glittering water as far as the eye can see and bathed in the warm Mediterranean sun, with all his most precious people scattered around him in the golden sand.

Safe and loved and so carefree and _happy_.

A pressure around his shoulders startles him, he almost jostles little Leon.

"Sorry," Seb murmurs, as he drapes a beach towel around Charles' shoulders, he presses a kiss to Leon's wrinkly forehead.

"I was worried you might get cold," he says softly.

Charles watches him, his little smile, the way he is watching Leon with what must be the softest expression known to man.

Softer than any man with as much blood on his hand has any right to.

(But this is the man Charles has married. Has devoted his entire life to.)

(Charles would have followed him to the depths of hell but somehow he's ended up in heaven instead.)

Charles watches him.

The way he leaves his hands on top of the towel around Charles' shoulder, grounding him.

Those big, warm hands.

Charles kisses him as the sun sets off the Amalfi coast.

With their children frolicking in the sand and surf, Leon cradled in Charles' arms, and security guards watching impassively on.

Seb kisses him back, big warm hands wrapping that towel around his shoulders and grounding him to this world.

This moment.

(_Here._)

-

(_Now)_

Seb takes off his coat and wraps it around Charles, flipping up the lapels to cover Charles' eyes and obscure his vision.

(So he can't see.)

(The blood.)

(The bodies.)

His security team are securing the warehouse that Charles was being kept in.

Seb pays them no mind, he guides Charles to the car.

There is some blood smudged on his cheek and it's bright against Seb's pale skin.

Seb moves efficiently, business-like.

(_He's done this before,_ Charles thinks faintly to himself.)

(And Seb doesn't believe in God.)

(_I have to now.)_

Settles Charles into the passenger seat and kisses him on the cheek.

Once on the left.

Once on the right.

Charles closes his eyes.

Seb releases a shuddery breath.

And one on his forehead.

"I'll be right back," he whispers and Charles nods.

Watches as Seb goes to exchange a few words with his head of security.

Charles blinks and wraps the coat tighter around his body as reality sets in and he starts to shake.

He turns to see if there are any spare clothes, a throw, _something _in the back seat.

He freezes.

Because-

Stacked neatly in the backseat.

Are five black bags.

The one on top has been zipped up hastily.

Clumsy.

The top flap is half-open.

Charles can just make out the contents of the bag.

_Cash._

A lot of it.

Charles blinks.

When Seb returns Charles immediately drags him in and kisses him full on the mouth, tears rolling down his cheek.

Seb kisses back equally hungry though more gentle.

-

_(Then)_

"Wow," Charles is peering at the fancy Rolex someone has gifted Seb.

It's big and ugly and probably costs a fortune.

Seb is still wearing the one Charles got him for their first wedding anniversary.

There's a small scratch on the corner of the glass-face from when Charles wasn't careful enough cleaning it.

It's an old model.

Not Rolex's highest-end range.

"It's a really nice watch," he remarks trying not to let any jealousy bleed into his voice.

Seb shrugs, he's watching Charles with a fond expression.

"It's just a watch," he reminds Charles.

"It's a good watch," Charles gravitates over, settling in Seb's lap, "a _really _good one."

Seb's arms instinctively wrap around his bony shoulders, enveloping him in warmth.

Recently they’ve started talking about children.

It's a big conversation.

Charles is nervous and excited and on edge and it's all making him a bit defensive.

(Protective.)

(Territorial.)

(_Insecure._)

"It's a really fucking nice watch, Seb," Charles murmurs softly, unable to meet Seb's eyes.

Seb shifts Charles in his lap so they're face-to-face.

"There are more important things in life," Seb replies easily.

He kisses Charles on the cheeks.

Once on the left.

Once on the right.

And once on his forehead.

**Author's Note:**

> i actually really like this even though they turned out more soft than nasty.


End file.
